Sometimes I think about that strange place where
we,
the mad children of the times collected in
black caverns
of fantasy and desire. It was so long ago
now when we let
our voices whisper and roar as we raced
through love and lust,
our hands slipping and gripping even as the
familiarity
wove an unbroken chain through the ensuing years.
The hurts we gave to each other were never
intended
for we were the wild flowers that bloom in
innocence.
I miss those times we spent together
laughing and learning,
for though I have found many more moments in
the light,
and many moments, too, alone before the
howling abyss,
it is the first blossom in company with
like-yielding wild flowers
that always fill memories stolen in the fading
evening sunlight
with the strongest scent of both tears shed
and laughter shared.
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